Peaches and Cream
by Shakespira
Summary: Carver comes to terms with what his life could have been and what it is. Set in the Anya Caron/Nathaniel Howe world of "By a Sea Divided." This is a birthday present for the wonderfully talented Oleander's One. Rated M because I want to be safe, not deleted.


_**A/N: **__This is a birthday present for Oleander's One - a wonderful writer, friend and fellow Cheeky Monkey. This was written in answer to your question about Carver and Flynne. ;) Happy Birthday!  
This takes place in the "By a Sea Divided" world._

**Peaches and Cream**

Carver hesitated, his hand hovering over the latch like a bee over a poppy. He leaned his head closer, listening to the sound of Flynne's off-key singing. If he closed his eyes he could see the mage; lean, muscled and extremely graceful. He was washing up, from the sound of it, which meant he'd stripped out of his armor and was at least shirtless. Shirtless. A low sigh escaped Carver. Maker, he had it bad.

"Carver? You aren't happy with your room?" his commander asked, startling him. He jumped back, landing squarely on her foot. A moment of silent embarrassment gave way to stuttering explanations.

"I – I like my room fine, it's just that Flynne was – I mean…" His voice trailed off. What did he mean? He felt like he was ten years old again, caught stealing old Barlin's apples. Maker's sake! He was an adult; a fact he seemed to have forgotten as he chastised himself silently, shuffling his feet nervously.

"I understand, Carver. I think we _all_ understand. That's the reason you're in the room next door. Come, let me show you something."

He followed Anya back to his room and his mind twisted and turned. Had he tidied his room before he left? Had he hidden his journal? Was she going to reprimand him for skulking in the halls of her father's palace? Would he ever feel comfortable in his own damned skin? For a moment or two, maybe, and then it slipped through his fingers like water through a sieve.

As soon as they entered his room, he let out a sigh of relief. It was tidy, no personal items in view. Anya went to the wall that separated his room from Flynne's. A large tapestry of a hunting scene hung there, complete with Orlesian hounds, which looked scrawny and prissy compared to mabari. In fact, Orlesians looked scrawny and prissy compared to Fereldans and he wondered how the Fereldans had managed to let the Orlesians occupy their country for as long as they had.

" – and that's how you do it."

Carver blinked. What had she said? And why was she grinning like that? He rubbed the back of his neck and managed to smile around his confusion. He was not about to ask Anya to repeat herself. What kind of a Warden would he be if he admitted he hadn't been listening to his commander?

"Now, do you want to talk about your feelings for – "

"Maker, no!"

"Very well, then I'll see you in the morning."

Carver nodded and stared at the tapestry, his thoughts spiraling. Did everyone know he had feelings for Flynne? Did Flynne? And if he knew, why hadn't he made some kind of move? Maybe he wasn't interested? Wouldn't Bethany have had a laugh at that? He wondered why Margaret hadn't said anything about it. She'd always been quick enough to tease him when he was growing up. But she'd changed and so had he, both of them forced to grow into roles that they'd never have chosen, given an opportunity, but both seemingly happier for it. What advice would she give? Probably helpful advice, he thought glumly. She'd managed to tame Broody well enough.

Leaning his head against the tapestry, Carver closed his eyes. It had been Margaret's suggestion to court Peaches. He was the man who would carry on the Hawke name and Penelope 'Peaches' Danvers would make a fine wife, she'd claimed when he was eighteen. He'd tried. Maker knew he'd tried to like her, had tried to show interest in her but it was her brother he'd been more attracted to. And did Margaret realize that Peaches got her nickname because every boy in the neighborhood had picked her fruit?

And a mage? How had he managed to do that to himself, after swearing if he never saw another mage in his life it would be too soon? But he was fairly certain he loved Flynne. There were times when they shared a glance, or a laugh, or simply sat in the same room, not talking but _there_, and he just knew that Flynne shared his feelings. But there were other times when he wondered why the worldly mage would care a scrap for a country bumpkin like him.

Pushing away from the wall, Carver felt the heat of lust and the heat embarrassment settling in various places, making the room uncomfortably warm. He splashed some water into the porcelain bowl, painted with men and women dancing at a fancy ball of all things, and then bathed his face. What was wrong with him?

He closed his eyes, the picture of Peaches lying in the barn, surrounded by hay and wearing a bold smile while he was – he couldn't – he'd fled, horrified and ashamed. The image of Peaches gave way to an image of Flynne laughing, cheeks bright from the wind and salty air, his curly brown hair clinging damply to his forehead. A low moan made Carver open his eyes and he glanced around the room to ensure nobody had heard that sound.

Peaches. Huh. He didn't even like the taste of peaches, at least not without the thick cream his mother had always served with them. Peaches were just another fruit. But the cream made the dish. Flynne was like that, just made everything taste better. Gah, his thoughts were flailing around in his head without rhyme or reason. And the water hadn't helped him calm down at all.

He shucked out of his clothes and stretched out on the bed, closing his eyes against the tapestry and what was on the other side. Was Flynne even in his room? They'd all retired for the night right after dinner but maybe Flynne had gone back down to find a book in the huge library on the ground floor? Most of the books had appeared to be written in Orlesian. Did Flynne speak Orlesian? He added that to a mental list of things he wanted to know about the mage and had yet to ask. There seemed so little private time, and then when they were alone sometimes Carver's tongue took a walk.

A thump on the wall and a handsome, boyish face – home to the most incredible blue eyes Carver had ever seen – popped around from behind the tapestry. "Hey," the mage greeted with a smug grin.

Carver, painfully aware of his erection, grabbed the blankets and pulled them up. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking? Maker, you mages are all alike, no thought for privacy at all," he snapped, his cheeks stinging from the amount of heat in them.

"You want me to what? Knock on the fox? Or maybe that sickly looking lady wearing birds in her hair?" Flynne asked, quickly settling the tapestry in place.

Carver found himself grinning even through his embarrassment. "I was thinking maybe you could hit that fool upside the head, that one with the tall hat and the harlequin mask? What a ponce."

He groaned at his word choice but Flynne laughed, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed. Carver's heart flipped over in his chest and he loosened his hold on his blanket, sliding over in invitation. Of what, he wasn't sure. No. That was a lie. He he did know, that was the problem. He knew but he just wasn't sure how to voice it.

"Who knew Annie came from such wealth? Why'd she leave it do you suppose?" Flynne asked, swinging his feet onto the bed and resting his back against the carved headboard.

Carver eyed the luxurious surroundings feeling suffocated by their richness and reckoned he knew exactly why she'd left. He would've too. In a rare moment of insight he realized he would never have been happy staying in the Amell mansion either. This new life as a Warden, with the ability to make his mark on the world, was where he was supposed to be.

"Same reason you would have run if you'd been sent to the circle," Carver replied and thought of Anders, wondering if the circle had driven him crazy or if he'd been slightly off center before that. And now, housing a spirit…he shuddered and Flynne shot him a concerned look.

"You all right? Too much fancy food?" the mage teased.

"Just wondering what makes a person open himself up to possession."

Flynne frowned, shaking his head. "Hard to say. I mean, I don't understand the reason for the Harrowing anyway, but to pass that and then be taken in by a spirit years later? Doesn't make much sense to me."

"You ever worry about demons?"

"Aw, you're concerned about me, farm boy. I'm touched."

"Shut it, magey, or I'll show you touched."

"You keep threatening and I keep pushing the boundary. You _ever_ going to actually follow through with that threat of yours?" Flynne slid off the bed and stood, hands on hips in challenge.

Carver's mouth went dry and his palms became damp. They'd played and teased for months and Carver had always retreated behind the invisible barrier that he'd erected. But the light was low, and Flynne's smile was too cocky, and he lunged off the bed, grabbing Flynne. He found his eyes drawn to Flynne's lips. Just a taste…just a quick touch to test the waters. What could that hurt? He lowered his head, resting his lips on Flynne's and his heart dipped, swayed, danced as the kiss lengthened.

A moan - he would never know if it was his or Flynne's – rumbled in the air and Carver pulled the mage closer, his fingers burying themselves in the riotous brown curls. A shiver rattled through him and he traced Flynne's lips with his tongue, the faint taste of ginger and lyrium tickling his senses.

He felt Flynne's hands run along his spine and then one splayed on his back while the other twisted into his hair. "You took your bloody time," the mage growled against Carver's mouth and Carver felt a smile curve along his lips.

"Had to make sure you were good enough for me, didn't I?" he joked, emboldened by Flynne's arousal pressing against him.

"Bloody cheek. How'd you survive childhood with that mouth?"

"Family secret. We're all about charm."

Flynne's teeth sank into Carver's lower lip and he groaned, pressing his body against the mage, fingers going to work on Flynne's clothing.

He wanted to take his time and explore every inch of the mage, every secret place that made Flynne groan or growl or shiver, but his own need was making him shake, his heart pounding as if he'd just battled a horde of darkspawn. He pushed the mage onto the bed and was immediately pulled down on top of him.

"If you think we're going to take our time, you really are naïve, farm boy," the mage whispered, pulling him close.

Carver was entranced by Flynne's skin, it was as smooth as the silken sheets on his bed, but muscles rippled beneath that skin and Carver thought he'd never seen a more beautiful sight. He trailed kisses along Flynne's neck, and down, letting instinct take over. He was giddy, so much so he was sure he would fly if Flynne's arms weren't wrapped around him.

Flynne's hand curled into Carver's hair and he was tugged back up to Flynne's lips. His control was falling away and he had a sudden, blazing realization. This was the reason Margaret had fought so hard for Fenris. This need to be both individual but one with another, to be connected to something greater than himself, but not lost by the _largeness_ of it.

Their coupling was not graceful, nor did it last very long, but Carver felt as though he could personally conquer Orlais. He felt as though he finally fit in his own skin. He wrapped his arms around Flynne, pulling the mage close and breathing deeply.

"If you think this gives you a free pass from me then you need to guess again, farm boy," Flynne said, his voice low and drowsy, his breath warm against Carver's shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah, tell it to someone who'll listen, magey."

Just as Carver was drifting off, his arms wrapped around Flynne, he thought again about Peaches and the life he was supposed to have wanted, was told he should live. Never. He would have suffocated, just as he would have if he'd stayed with Margaret in Kirkwall.

Flynne stirred, murmuring in his sleep and Carver grinned. This life, no matter how much shorter and more difficult it might prove to be, was exactly the life he was meant to live.


End file.
